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What the man on the screen teaches is another matter. Teaching is not technology. It is the splendid province of the remarkable man on this week's cover. In the last year he has done more than any other single educator to throw Sputnik's red glare where it belongs-on the curriculum in U.S. public schools. James Bryant Conant is a product (1910) of one of the nation's best secondary schools, Roxbury Latin in Boston. In his 303 he was one of the country's most brilliant young chemists. At 40 he became president...
Deep Thoughts. The U.S. was also a land willing to cope with its problems, private and public. Labor Day was at hand, there was a tang of autumn in the air, and the children had to be outfitted for school. The glare of U.S.rockets had mostly quieted the nervous outcry that arose after the Soviet's Sputnik I, and U.S. missile progress was continuing apace. The U.S. Capitol, seething with the great labor-reform battle, was buried in a Niagara of mail from the home folks. Western Union's Capitol branch put its employees on a twelve-hour...
...Founder Henry Baldwin Hyde of the Equitable Life Assurance Society, and himself an elegant dandy whose $100,000 Manhattan party in 1905-a re-creation of Versailles, with imported French food, wine, clothing and actresses-climaxed the extravagances of the Gilded Age and turned the harsh glare of publicity on the free-spending practices of insurance companies; in Saratoga Springs. N.Y. Spurred by public indignation, a committee of the New York state legislature investigated Equitable, pressured young Hyde to quit his job as vice president. Incensed. Hyde moved to France, where he settled for the real Versailles (he restored Madame...
Belle tells all-or. anyway, enough to leave the rest readily imagined-in this ribaldly readable autobiography of an uncommon bawd, which is at the same time a perceptive reminiscence of the gaslight culture in its last wild glare...
...green ranch house is midcentury, middle-class suburban. Its picture windows, once the pride of a wrong-armed infielder named Preston Ward (since departed for Kansas City), glare across the scrubby, rattlesnake-infested foothills toward the San Fernando Valley. As the Thunderbird flies, the place is 12 smoggy miles from the manicured canyons of Bel Air and Beverly Hills, where a movie star ought to live. By classical Hollywood standards, this pad is so far out that it might as well be in Oshkosh or Altoona or on a space platform, and the girl who lives there is even farther...